Aria Vale kept her breathing steady.
The calm voice from the speaker filled the apartment. "Inhale. Exhale. Release tension."
She sat cross-legged on a yoga mat in front of the large window.
Outside, the city moved under the heavy afternoon heat, with the temperature was close to thirty-eight degrees, but inside her apartment the air conditioning kept the space cold.
She preferred it that way, the cold helped her think clearly.
Her posture was straight, and her hands rested lightly on her knees, with each breath, her shoulders rose and fell in a slow rhythm.
There was a faint sound at the door, footsteps in the hallway, and something slid across the floor inside her apartment.
She did not react immediately.
She finished her breath, then opened her eyes.
A newspaper lay near the entrance, Aria stood, walked over, and picked it up.
The front page displayed a man's photograph. Wealthy, public figure, and smiling in a picture taken months ago.
He had been found dead in a hotel suite that morning, by a shot through the chest.
The report mentioned a single 7.62mm round fired from a building across the street.
The bullet pierced the glass and entered directly through the heart.
Clean. Immediate.
Aria folded the newspaper and placed it on the table.
"As expected," she said quietly.
"You never disappoint."
She turned toward the voice.
Victor Chen leaned against the kitchen counter, with a tall, broad and relaxed in posture but alert in expression.
He had worked with her long enough to understand her routines.
"I was paid," she replied. "I completed the job."
"People are celebrating his death," Victor said. "You removed someone dangerous."
"That wasn't my concern."
She stepped closer.
"What about the money?"
Victor's faint smile faded slightly.
"Where is the rest?" she asked.
He had come with only the newspaper. No cases, nor any payment.
"If everything went as planned," she continued evenly, "three hundred thousand should already be here."
"There's a delay," he admitted.
Her expression remained calm.
"How long?"
"Three days."
"That was not the agreement."
"I know."
She turned and walked into the bedroom.
"Aria," Victor called after her. "Listen first."
She ignored him and opened the drawer beside her bed. Inside lay a silver Beretta pistol. Next to it, a reinforced watch that looked ordinary but was not. It could trigger a compact explosive strong enough to break reinforced doors.
She did not take the gun.
She picked up the watch.
Victor stepped into the doorway. "You're not going there."
"I'm collecting what's mine," she replied.
"It's Sergei Volkov," he said quietly. "You know how he is."
"Yes."
"He claims there are complications."
"There are always complications."
She selected a black tight shirt with no patterns from the rack and buttoned it slowly.
"I'll handle it tomorrow," Victor insisted. "You don't need to go in person."
"No."
"You don't have to do everything yourself."
"Yes, I do."
She walked past him toward the front door.
"Stay here," she said.
"Why?"
"I saw a cockroach in the kitchen this morning."
Victor stared at her.
"It was big," she added calmly, spreading her fingers to show the size.
"This is important right now?"
"It's just as important as the money," she replied. "If it shows up again, I won't sleep."
He shook his head slightly.
She opened the door.
"If I don't come back," she added casually, "kill it properly. Don't just spray."
Then she stepped outside.
Victor rubbed his face once the door closed.
He only hoped her face would not appear in the newspaper the next morning.
Sergei Volkov valued control.
He sat at a long outdoor table on the lawn of his estate. A chef had placed a tenderloin steak in front of him. Armed men stood behind him. Others patrolled with trained dogs.
The morning newspaper lay open beside his plate, displaying the death of the man who had once been his rival.
Sergei cut into the steak and chewed slowly.
Then the gates at the entrance burst open.
A black Jaguar drove across the lawn at high speed, tearing through the grass. Guards shouted and raised their weapons.
The car stopped sharply in front of the table.
The driver's door opened.
Aria stepped out , with loud music briefly escaped from the vehicle before she shut the door.
Dozens of guns aimed at her.
Sergei lifted one hand.
"Lower them."
The weapons lowered, though not completely.
Aria pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down.
"Are you going to eat?" she asked calmly.
She removed her sunglasses and placed them on the table.
"I'm not eating. I'm here for the money."
"You damaged my lawn," Sergei said.
"You delayed my payment."
He studied her. "You're impatient."
"I'm precise."
He resumed cutting his steak. "You could have waited."
"No."
"You're alone."
"Yes."
"That's dangerous."
"For who?"
The guards shifted uneasily.
"There were complications," Sergei said.
"That's not my concern."
"It becomes your concern when I say so."
She crossed one leg over the other.
"I'll give you three minutes."
The air grew tense.
"Or what?" he asked.
"Or I take what I'm owed, with interest."
Sergei laughed once. "You think you can threaten me in my own yard?"
She tapped the watch lightly on her wrist.
"I'm not threatening you. I'm reminding you."
His gaze fell briefly to her wrist.
"One minute," she said calmly.
Sergei snapped his fingers.
A black case was brought forward and placed on the table. It opened to reveal stacks of cash.
"Two hundred thousand," he said. "The rest tomorrow."
"That's not the agreement."
"You're pushing your luck."
"No," she replied. "You are."
Silence filled the lawn.
He snapped his fingers again.
A second case was brought forward.
Opened.
The remaining hundred thousand.
She stood.
Before closing the cases, she glanced at his plate.
"It's overcooked," she said evenly. "You should have it done properly."
Sergei smiled faintly.
"That's why I like you. You're not afraid."
"I respect contracts," she replied.
She closed the cases.
"There's another job," he called out as she turned away.
She paused.
"In Italy, a high-value target. Political ties. I'll pay ten times what you earned today."
"I don't accept impulsive offers."
"This isn't impulsive."
"Send it formally," she replied. "With structure."
He watched her walk back to her car.
"She's wasted on small contracts," he muttered.
That night, Aria counted the money in her apartment.
Three hundred thousand. Correct.
Her secure phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
She answered.
"Aria Vale."
"You were recommended," a calm male voice said.
"By whom?"
"A mutual associate."
She did not press further.
"We represent an organization that handles high-level operations," the voice continued. "International. Structured."
"What do you want?" she asked.
"There is a man. Alessandro Moretti."
The name meant nothing to her yet.
"He controls shipping, construction, and private security companies. Publicly legitimate. Privately untouchable."
"And?"
"He possesses documents we require."
"Steal them."
"And eliminate him."
Silence followed.
"Why me?" she asked.
"Because you don't hesitate."
She leaned back slightly.
"What's your name?"
"Adrian."
"You expect loyalty?"
"Yes."
"And payment?"
"On time."
She walked toward the window.
"This personal?" she asked.
"For you," Adrian replied quietly. "Years ago, two investigative journalists were killed while investigating networks connected to the Moretti family."
Her breathing remained steady.
"You were eight," he continued. "You were told who was responsible."
She said nothing.
"Alessandro inherited more than his father's business."
The room was silent.
"This is justice," Adrian said.
Aria stared at the city lights beyond the glass.
"When do we begin?" she asked.
"Immediately."
She ended the call.
On her tablet, a file appeared moments later.
Photograph. Age. Background.
Alessandro Moretti.
Intelligent. Calculated. Careful.
This would not be a simple shot from across a street.
It would require patience.
Access.
Trust.
Aria closed the file and looked once more at the folded newspaper on her table.
One mission had ended.
Another had begun.